


Am I More Than You Bargained For Yet?

by alexabarton



Series: Deduce My Ruined Heart [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, BAMF John, BAMF Sherlock, Blow Jobs, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Explicit Language, Fluff, Frottage, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Jealousy, M/M, Teenlock, Top John, Unilock, attempted forced drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-16
Updated: 2014-10-16
Packaged: 2018-02-21 10:00:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2464190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexabarton/pseuds/alexabarton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his night with Sherlock, John must deal with the consequences of shagging a guitar-playing teenage sex-god.</p><p>Was it just a one-night stand, or is he in over his head this time?</p><p>Jealousy, betrayal, drug- dealers and danger - John Watson is about to have a very bad day!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Am I More Than You Bargained For Yet?

If it was physically possible for the human heart to simultaneously leap and sink at the same time, then that was what happened to John Watson as he stood in the kitchen in his pants, staring at a very naked Sherlock Holmes, framed in the open doorway. His soon-to be ex (sorry I forgot to let you know that little fact while I was shagging this maniac) girlfriend Sara, looked on in horror.

“Ah John, is that for me? Thanks!”

Sherlock grabbed the glass of juice that wasn’t currently leaving a wet sticky pool on the kitchen worktop, took a large swig, nodded once in acknowledgement to Sara and promptly walked out of the room again.

The fucking cheeky bastard! John thought. What the hell was that for? Was he trying to make some sort of point? But no, he can’t have known Sara was here surely? It had certainly been a massive surprise to John. He made to go after him, his hand stretching out to open the door.

“Er, no, I don’t think so, do you?”

Sara’s voice rang out across the space, quivering slightly with unshed tears.

“ I think you owe me some sort of explanation, for whatever the hell that was”.

She waved her hand vaguely towards the closed kitchen door and Sherlock’s retreating back. John squeezed his eyes closed, pinching the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb. This was an unmitigated fucking disaster. He couldn’t believe how utterly and completely he had fucked this all up. Sara didn’t deserve to find out like this, that John didn’t want to be with her anymore, no-one deserved this and it was all John’s fault for being such a coward and a liar, carried away by the human tornado, Sherlock Holmes.

He braced himself for the oncoming storm.

“Cosy little sleepover party was it John? Entertain a lot of naked schoolboys in your bedroom, do you?

Sara was shouting now, disbelief giving way to anger and contempt.

“Oh god Sara, I’m so, so sorry. I’m not going to stand here and pretend that wasn’t what it looked like, because it’s exactly what it looked like, and I’m the world’s biggest dick, I know. I meant to call, I should’ve called, it just….it just…..sort of…happened…..I don’t even know how….I…..I…” he trailed off, unsure how to continue.

There was nothing he could do to make this right, to make Sara not feel like shit, to turn back time and make that call (not a text, you couldn’t break up with someone by text) before making the biggest decision of his entire life.

The damage was done.

He had pursued this, felt the clench of excitement in the pit of his stomach at the first glimpse of Sherlock on stage playing his guitar, let Harry encourage him to seek out adventure deliberately, didn’t back away when faced with the object of his fantasy, ignored all the voices in his head insisting that he couldn’t do this, he wasn’t gay, he had a girlfriend.

He wished she would punch him.

He deserved it.

He wasn’t angry at Sherlock for leaving, after all, this was John’s mess. The kitchen door opened again.

“Who the fuck was that long streak of piss that just left? I could’ve sworn he looked like that bloke from that band we saw last night John” Mike Stamford looked from John to Sara, smiling broadly.

“Oh, has he still got his dick out?” Sara spat, eyes still locked on John’s.

“What?” Mike started laughing now, failing to register the hostile atmosphere.

“Well, apparently, you _friend_ here spent the rest of the night _fucking_ that ‘long streak of piss’ whoever he was”.

“Sara don’t….just stop….Mike…mate…” ( John wanted the earth to open up and swallow him whole)

“When did you suddenly decide you were gay John? Was our relationship a joke to you, are you having a good laugh now, you and your little boy toy?”

John had to defuse this, Sara was becoming hysterical.

Mike beat him to the punch.

“Come on, you don’t think he really just banged that bloke do you?” he said incredulous.

“I did”

The kitchen fell silent. Mike blinked rapidly, opened his mouth as if to speak and closed it again. He swallowed convulsively, and trailed his hand back and forward through his short bristly hair.

“Er right, erm….I’ll just leave now…shall I?....you guys obviously have a lot to talk about…erm…catch you later John mate”. He turned to leave.

“Mike hang on a sec” John felt sick, he had essentially outted himself to his best mate in the kitchen, standing in his underwear with his ex- girlfriend in tears beside him. This was not going well.

Mike held up his hand, palm forward to fend off John’s advance.

“Look, right now this is between you and Sara mate, come find me later, we’ll talk then”. He gave John a tight-lipped smile as he left.

“Shall we go to your room and talk? This is embarrassing enough without anyone else walking in” Sara said as she sniffled and hiccoughed. John thought of his three other flatmates who hadn’t yet appeared and silently agreed. But not his room for god’s sake! John thought about a used condom lying somewhere on the floor under a pile of dirty clothes, and an unmade bed that probably stank of sweat and sex.

“Er, maybe just wait here? I’ll be back in a sec….clothes” he gestured apologetically at his near-naked body.

“Going to hide the evidence you mean, you dick!” she shot at him as he backed out of the room.

It wasn’t quite as bad as he had imagined. Sherlock had at least made a cursory attempt to straighten the duvet and the used condom was now in the bin, neatly wrapped in a piece of toilet paper, but you could still tell exactly what had gone on in here last night.

He had lost his virginity to another boy.

Or had he? Well, he had been the one doing the penetrating, not the other way round, but that still counted right? John was a little confused. Did it only really count as losing your virginity if Sherlock fucked him? He wasn’t sure. He would have to ask Sherlock that. Oh shit! He was gone wasn’t he? John had his number in his phone obviously, but there had been no goodbye this morning and they hadn’t made any further plans to see each other. But last night had been so amazing. Sleeping with someone he had only just met, especially when this time yesterday he had been obliviously heterosexual, was insane, but Sherlock was beyond beautiful and he had kept his promise and made it good for John. His phone was lying on the pillow, he was sure he hadn’t left it there earlier. John picked it up and switched it back on (he had definitely been avoiding Sara, at least subconsciously, several missed calls, guilt returning) The two most recent texts were from Sherlock. He opened them.

**Freshers gig tonight at Amersham Arms, New Cross – come if convenient – SH**

**If inconvenient come anyway – SH**

~*~

In hindsight, walking into the kitchen naked had not been one of Sherlock’s most inspired ideas. His pants had been dirty (after three separate bouts of sexual activity with John, a mutual wank, a blow job and full sex) and he didn’t really care who saw him anyway. In fact he had wanted John to see him very much. Sherlock wasn’t shy (to say the least). But even as emotionally compromised as he believed himself to be, he realised his mistake immediately. At some point during the nights activities, John’s girlfriend had arrived, but judging by her appearance she had not, Sherlock surmised, suspected John of indulging in a night of rampant sodomy. She had instead chosen to believe John had been unfaithful with another girl.

That was, until Sherlock had put his massive foot in it.

Not to have the opportunity to touch John again this morning had been disappointing. He looked even better naked in the daylight, Sherlock thought, his compact muscular frame, fuzzy blond chest hair, defined calves and thighs which would look even better wrapped around Sherlock’s back. Urgh! The inconveniences of a high sex drive! Sherlock was considering the possibility of a quick wank when his phone rang loudly.

“Whatever you are thinking of doing dear brother, don’t bother. I will see you outside in five minutes”

“Fine!”

Irritated beyond belief he rummaged on the floor for his filthy t-shirt, pants and jeans. The pants were beyond redemption so he screwed them into a messy ball and shoved them into the pocket of his grey hoodie – going commando it was then! John’s phone was lying in a tangle of bedclothes. Sherlock picked it up delicately and placed it on the pillow where John would see it when he entered the room, then he searched on the floor for the discarded condom. He found some toilet paper in John’s tiny ensuite shower room and wrapped the rubber neatly before depositing it in the bin. He eyed the shower longingly. It would have been nice to wash, soaping the night from his skin and hair, pressed close in the small space with John, touching each other, skin on skin.

He huffed in annoyance.

He had to see John again. The band was playing again tonight and although it would be agony to wait so long, Sherlock wanted him to be there, waiting for him when he came off stage. He wanted everyone there to know that John Watson was his. But after his daring escape from Mycroft’s surveillance web of fear, he wasn’t sure if he would be permitted to go. Not that he needed Mycroft’s permission to do anything, he did as he pleased, but Greg might say no because Mycroft told him to say that, and it was Greg’s band and Greg’s van.

Sherlock decided silence and an air of contrition were the best course of action.

Do not engage with the enemy. Ha!

He left instructions for John, and reluctantly turned to go.

~*~

Sherlock was completely unmoved when he observed the large black, executive car parked just off campus. Mycroft couldn’t resist the urge to interfere and this was not a task to be undertaken by one of his minions. As he approached, the rear passenger door opened wide to receive him, Mycroft sitting stiffly on the leather seat, ridiculous umbrella between his knees, point pressing into the carpeted floor.

“Sherlock, how lovely to see you brother dear, it’s been an age, Friday evening was it not?”

Sherlock’s stomach roiled with resentment and frustration as he vowed not to behave in the way that he believed Mycroft wanted and expected.

“Might I offer my sincere congratulations Sherlock, you appear to have made it all the way to morning this time”

Mycroft’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

“ John Watson must be very special indeed”.

~*~

Sherlock fought to retain his composure. Mycroft eyed him thoughtfully. Sherlock’s typical response when confronted with Mycroft’s disapproval was attack. He would push the limits of Mycroft’s patience at every available opportunity, finding new and inventive ways to rebel and defy his authority. His escapade with the mahogany desk had not gone unnoticed, despite what Sherlock might believe, but he would pick his battles carefully. The key with Sherlock was to let him think he was two steps ahead when really he was always one behind.

Mycroft had never expected to find the task of raising his brother to adulthood easy. He had fully expected to be thwarted at every available opportunity, and had not been disappointed thus far, but he had taken on the responsibility willingly, with father gone and mummy ‘emotionally unavailable’, shall we say, what other choice could there be?

He placed a smart leather overnight bag on the seat between them.

“Your uniform, clean and pressed, toiletries, underwear, shoes, your school books, laptop. You have twenty minutes, clean yourself up and get dressed, you look disgusting, and for god’s sake comb you hair Sherlock”.

Sherlock complied wordlessly. This was marginally disturbing Mycroft thought, and he found himself actually missing the verbal sparring and dramatic outbursts which usually marked one of their typical brotherly exchanges. He knew from experience that a quiet Sherlock was a dangerous Sherlock. His body performing on automatic pilot as his mind plotted and schemed. Of all the possible outcomes of this morning’s little exchange, Mycroft had not expected this.

“A car will collect you from school at 3.30pm, you will be brought directly home where you will shower, change for dinner and complete any outstanding homework. Lestrade will arrive to collect you at 8.30pm. you have an engagement tonight I believe. You will arrive home no later than 1.00am. I will be waiting in the study. You will not be engaging in any further acts of public indecency, do I make myself clear?”

“As crystal Mycroft”

Sherlock’s eyes flashed dangerously for half a beat, mostly green today Mycroft noted, which was always particularly telling regarding Sherlock’s current mental state. He must remind Greg to take extra care this evening.

Mycroft was only sorry that he could not go in person. He did so love to watch Greg on stage, singing, playing his guitar, commanding an audience. Greg Lestrade was an incredibly talented man in more ways than one, and he was Mycroft’s current weakness, a chink in his armour, an honour which he shared with his errant sibling. It was an invaluable help, to allow Sherlock to play with the band. He was prodigiously talented, having received no formal lessons whatsoever, playing instinctively, brilliantly. Of course Sherlock would protest that he hated every second of it, that he was only doing it because Mycroft had requested it of him as a favour to Greg, but Mycroft could see how deliriously happy it made him. That was why he had never had any intention of denying Sherlock the opportunity to play, despite what Sherlock had believed.

Which brought Mycroft round to the new and fascinating subject of John Watson.

Sherlock seemed to believe that this boy was different, after less than 12 hours acquaintance. Well, thought Mycroft, it had gone significantly beyond acquaintance, Sherlock looked positively debauched this morning. This was not the first time Sherlock had engaged in unspeakably filthy activities with ‘band groupies’ after concerts – one of the more worrying aspects of his involvement as bass guitarist. But it was usually all over within an hour or so, and Sherlock would slouch home some time in the early hours.

Mycroft sometimes like to believe it wasn’t Sherlock’s fault (entirely). He was an undeniably beautiful child, striking and enigmatic with a natural charisma which drew people to him (but were soon repelled by his obnoxious arrogance and disdain). Sherlock had just as many fans as Greg on the circuit, the majority being teenage girls (which were not likely to create an issue, Sherlock being Kinsey 6 gay) but Mycroft sometimes felt that Sherlock failed to recognise the effect he had on some people, committed as he was to the ‘bang and bolt’ method of seduction. Mycroft sighed.

He somehow managed to maintain a thin façade of calm when his thoughts turned to Victor Trevor. Mycroft had befriended him (not a common occurrence for Mycroft), welcomed him into their home, trusted him, and that trust had been betrayed in the most horrific way. It still made Mycroft’s blood run cold to recall the day he discovered that Victor had despoiled his vulnerable, emotionally unstable young brother in their family home. He had taken his innocence, introduced him to a world of perversions, convinced the boy he was in love, that he’d wanted Victor to do those things to him. Mycroft shuddered at the memory of delicate pale skin marred by vicious red welts.

It had opened the floodgates, and now Sherlock’s insatiable sexual appetite was a major cause for concern.

Caring was most certainly not an advantage when it came to Sherlock.

Of course, Sherlock always had the potential to pursue anything to excess, which had led to their current predicament. It was tiresome, not to mention exhausting, and expensive, maintaining such a high level of surveillance on a 17 year old boy, but Mycroft was worried. Sherlock had demonstrated a propensity to bouts of depression, or some sort of depressive state in recent years, as well as episodes of frantic activity when he often didn’t eat or sleep for days. He had refused point blank any medical intervention, but Mycroft was concerned he had returned to self-medication, as he had when Victor had left (had been encouraged to leave, Mycroft conceded). Cigarettes were the least of it, some Marijuana, and Cocaine the worst of all. He was eternally grateful for Greg’s discretion in that department, for his love and support (Greg was extremely fond of Sherlock).

Mycroft should ask his opinion of John Watson, perhaps this boy was different….

The car pulled up to a set of large wrought iron gates, set back slightly from the road.

“We can take you to the door Sherlock”

“No, this is fine, Mycroft”

Sherlock climbed out of the car looking every inch the innocent schoolboy, young and unspoilt by the world.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

Mycroft placed a call:

“Anthea, I need as much information as you can gather, through the usual channels on John Hamish Watson, first year Medicine, UCL”. He sighed. “ Oh, and Anthea, an update on the current whereabouts of Mr Victor Trevor if you will”.

~*~

John nursed his cold latte and regretted the waste of £3.50. Selfish again, so fucking selfish. He looked down at his hands, his thumb rubbed absently across the handle of the mug at a splash of foam. Sara sat across from him, Americano untouched, an oily film floated on the surface. Her eyes were red-rimmed from crying and she looked tired due to lack of sleep from the night before , John guessed, which she had spent, curled up uncomfortably on the kitchen sofa, waiting for him. Almost fifteen minutes had passed and neither had said a word, reluctant to be the first one to break the silence and begin this most awkward and devastating of conversations. John finally cleared his throat and Sara jumped visibly in her seat where she had been lost in silent contemplation, staring at the wet mug rings on the polished surface of the table. John felt another stab of guilt and desperately tried to swallow it down.

This had dragged on long enough.

“His name is Sherlock. I met him last night…..”

Sara cut him off – “Sherlock?” she said, incredulous, “What sort of ridiculous pansy-arse name is that?”

John knew that she was just lashing out from hurt and embarrassment, but this was going to go no-where fast if they just sat and threw insults at each other. He still liked Sara after all, genuinely, no pretence, but perhaps not in the way that either of them had believed or hoped.

“Yes, Sherlock”, he continued, “last night, at the concert in the Student Union Bar, he was one of the band members, playing on stage. I went outside to get some air afterwards and he was there. We just started talking, about music and stuff, just hit it off straight away I guess”

“Oh how nice for the two of you!”

Sara was obviously not ready to let go of her anger just yet, but it was important to get this all out. John still hadn’t worked it all through in his own mind yet.

“So, tell me John, how is it that you can go from having barely any physical contact with me for the last two months to doing god knows what with some random guy on the same night you meet him? How does that work exactly? Sorry, no, not god knows what, let’s not sugar coat this shall we, you had sex with him, didn’t you, sex, with a boy, gay sex, up the arse sex!”

An old lady drinking a hot chocolate at the table behind them looked up in alarm, scandalised, and tutted at them both with disapproval. John covered his brow with one hand and tapped out a compulsive rhythm on the table-top with the other. Maybe it was better to just let her get all the bile and resentment out now. Let her call John all the insulting names, cast all the gay slurs, call him out as the bastard that he so obviously was.

“Am I really that disgusting, or have I been a cover for your ‘gayness’ all along? Were you just pretending when we were together, for appearance sake? To fit in with the lads? So that you could join in with all their Neanderthal dirty-talk about tits and fanny’s?"

Sara slumped slightly in her seat then, her shoulders dropped with an air of defeat.

“I just feel like such a fool John, I really liked you and I thought you liked me too. Obviously I was wrong. Was it all a lie John? Really?”

He wasn’t sure what he could say to make her feel any better because there was no ‘any better’ in this case, it was orders of magnitude fucked-up, he knew that, but none of it was Sara’s fault.

“I didn’t plan this Sara, I didn’t set out to cheat on you last night…..but I’ve got no excuse, none at all, and it was a shitty thing to do you, to do to anyone, before I broke up with you properly. What I mean is, we both know that something wasn’t right between us, I see that now, but I care about you, I honestly do, and I was just scared of hurting you, by ending it, but not being honest and not ending it has just made it a hundred times worse, and I’ve gone and hurt you anyway. But please believe me, it has nothing to do with how you are, please don’t ever think that. You’re gorgeous and funny and great company and I never deserved someone like you, I just….”.

He stuttered to a halt, not sure how put the next part into words. He tried.

“It’s like part of me has been dead for, like, forever, I don’t know, I just didn’t think there was anything else, this was just how things would be, for me, normal John doing normal things having a normal life, but that fucking town, where we live, it was just sucking all the life out of me, every day just grey and stifling. Leaving there, coming here, it was like I’d been living in a black and white TV or something, and now its full colour fifty two inch widescreen”.

“Was it just the change of location John, or was it him?” Sara whispered hoarsely.

“ I don’t know, maybe….yes?”

He winced as he said it, poised to deflect another tirade of abuse, but Sara just sighed and rubbed her hands over her face.

“Well, I guess that’s it then, isn’t it? She looked resigned, defeated. “How could I possibly compete with that? Glorious, technicolour Sherlock and dull grey Sara?"

She held out both hands to placate him.

“No John, no more, please, I get it. No, actually, I’m not sure I do, but listen, just make sure you know what you’re getting into, it just seems so sudden, all this, the gay thing…..”

“Yeah, I, know, it kind of knocked me sideways, out of the blue….but, I’d like to stay in touch, not right now I know, I can’t expect that of you, but maybe later on?”

She shrugged “It’s all a bit too much at the minute John, I can hardly stand to look at you, but…..we were friends before we went out, so….I won’t delete you just yet…” she waved her phone in the air.

“Listen, I have train to catch soon so I need to get a taxi to Paddington, I was going to stay another night, but well, you know”

“Sara, I never did ask, how come you came down last night anyway?, I’m sure I would have remembered if you’d said something”

“It was Harry. She rang me a couple of days ago, said you were acting a bit weird, not answering her calls and stuff, she thought you might be having a hard time being away from home, thought you might be missing me. Wrong on both counts I guess”

That was typical of Harry, thought John. He had first voiced his fears to her about ending things with Sara about a month ago and she really had tried to convince him that the best thing to do was make a clean break before university. But she was tired of his dithering now and had taken it upon herself to ‘force the issue’. Yes, it was sneaky and underhand, because she must’ve known that Sara would turn up right in the middle of this thing with Sherlock, but it had worked, sort of. She would definitely owe him one now though.

Sara picked up her bag from the floor and pushed back her seat with a screech of metal on wood.

“Bye then”, she walked slowly towards the door and paused with her hand on the handle, “Just…. don’t do something you might regret later John”.

A blast of cool autumn air ruffled the newspapers in the stand by the entrance as she moved out onto the pavement and was swallowed in a sea of people. Right, John thought, now Mike.

~*~

John pushed open the heavy door of the Railway Arms and breathed in the warm fuggy smell of beer and something akin to wet dog. The lunchtime rush of office workers and city boys, slumming it with the commoners had given way to the die-hard student crowd, those with nothing better to do on a Tuesday afternoon than drink cheap lager and play pool until the bars and clubs opened, offering happy hour deals of two-for- one shots and three quid triple measures. If you didn’t have a permanent hangover on freshers week, you weren’t really trying. John didn’t have a hangover, he just had a headache. His morning with Sara had been tough and he hoped he wasn’t going to get more of the same disbelief and anger. Mike had been his best friend since primary school, always on the large size for his age he had acted as a kind of bodyguard for John on their first day, running the gauntlet of playground bullies and older kids who had seemed like giants to a tiny 5 year old John, that was, until John proved himself to be a scrappy little fighter, perfectly able to take care of himself. He remembered all the birthdays and scouts trips and sleepovers they had enjoyed over the years and hoped that all this hadn’t tainted Mike’s memories of those times and that he didn’t think John had been secretly fantasizing about him all along.

Mike sat at a table in the corner to the left with a half-full pint in front of him, he was flipping beer mats and munching on a large bag of Walker’s salt & vinegar crisps. John caught his eye as he picked up his drink for another mouthful and he hand-signed ‘do you want another’ at him from across the room. Mike nodded eagerly. John bought the drinks and headed over careful to sit on a stool opposite, not squeezed together on the more comfortable upholstered bench. Mike noticed and raised an eyebrow at him.

“Right, about this morning…” he began.

“Well let’s just dive straight in there mate, no hi Mike, good to see you Mike” he was laughing John was relieved to find. “Must say I’m glad to see you in one piece after this morning, Christ John, it’s a good job she didn’t know where the knife drawer was, she looked about ready to stab you with something”.

John laughed nervously. “Yeah, well, I didn’t exactly handle things well did I?”

“Caught with your pants down Johnny boy!”

“Well no, that was Sherlock actually, the stupid dickhead thought that walking into the kitchen stark bollock naked would be a perfectly okay thing to do”.

Mike was laughing harder now, there was nothing funnier apparently than a friends’ misfortune, especially if it involved naked body parts.

“What did he do though, when he walked in?”

“Had a drink of juice and walked out again”

“Fucking hell, that’s priceless, I wish I’d seen it, he was fully dressed when he left by the way – in last night’s clothes doing the walk of shame. Look John, does this mean you’re gay then? How long have you known you liked blokes?, I mean, it makes no difference to me mate, you’re still the same John Watson to me, if that’s what you’re worried about”.

John wanted to cry, he felt so relieved, but Mike would just take the piss even more. He could see the mischievious glint in his eye.

“You don’t look gay” (here we go)

“What exactly does gay look like anyway?” said John, and anyway, you tosser, I never said I was, I think I might be bi”

“Trust you to be a greedy bastard, can’t just stick to fifty per cent of the human race, you want a go at the whole fucking lot”

Mike smirked and John braced himself, the big one was coming, he could feel it.

“So, what’s it like, shagging a bloke?"

John groaned and buried his head in his hands.

“ Sorry, have to ask mate, in the interests of scientific curiosity, ya know?”

“In the interests of being a bloody nosy bastard, more like – that’s a bit personal, don’t you think?”

“Yeah maybe, fair point – I dunno, I thought maybe you might fancy a piece of this fine ass”, he slapped his backside playfully.

“Fuck no! You wanker! It’s not funny!” but they were both laughing now.

“I don’t know whether to be offended or not”, Mike snorted, “I didn’t think I was that ugly”.

“So, are you seeing him again?, he asked, “Or was it just a one-nighter?”

“He left me a message before he left this morning, his band is on again tonight over in New Cross, he wants me to go down there”.

“And you don’t want to feel like a tit by going to a gig on your own, is that right?”

“Yeah” John admitted sheepishly.

“Right then, better ring the guys, looks like its boy’s out again, you owe me Watson, and anyway, at least one of us deserves to get our leg over tonight”.

~*~

“Ready Sherlock?”

Greg Lestrade stood in the immaculate hallway of the Holmes family townhouse in faded ripped jeans and a plain black t-shirt looking every inch the sexy band frontman and nothing at all like the smart young police constable he had been two hours ago. Sherlock sat on the bottom step of the staircase while he pulled on and laced his battered old Converse hi-tops. He was similarly attired in t-shirt (white, tight) and black skinny jeans (also very tight, different from the night before), his standard gig uniform. The day had been excruciatingly long and boring, and Sherlock had hardly paid any attention in any of his classes, preferring instead to lose himself in day dreams of deep blue eyes and ash blond hair, of the very first incredible moment he had realised the world contained a John Watson, and the even more amazing fact that he was allowed to kiss and touch and taste him too.

It had been hard to leave him this morning, and also hard to acknowledge that he felt such a deep-seated need to be with someone, to have them close. Emotional entanglements were dangerous, he felt, made you foolish and vulnerable, compromised your ability to make rational decisions. Sherlock chose solitude as form of self-preservation, a way to avoid being hurt (again), wrapped it around his heart like barbed wire. The outside world might see a heartless, arrogant arsehole, but the truth was, Sherlock was afraid to feel, because when he did, he felt too deeply and it consumed him.

But in a few brief hours, John Watson had found a chink in the armour and wormed his way inside. Sherlock was desperate to see him again. He had been checking his phone compulsively for the past four hours, from the minute the car had dropped him off at the house, until just before Greg had knocked at the door. John had answered his message from this morning around mid-afternoon

**(‘Can’t wait, coming in a group, no probs to ditch them later – JW’)**

Excellent!, the only foreseeable problem would be getting around the Mycroft imposed curfew of 1.00am. Sherlock was determined to spend another night with John, in John’s bed, preferably to work through a few more of the items on his ‘things I want to do to John Watson’ list. John’s message had given a positive indication of how the little kitchen drama of this morning had played out. ‘Can’t wait’ didn’t sound like someone still in the midst of a relationship or upset after a messy break-up. He was coming, and the reason he was coming was to see Sherlock. John wanted this every bit as much as he did., he must.

“Ah Greg, glad I caught you before you leave – a word alone if you would”.

Mycroft’s unctuous tone rang across the hallway. As if this was just some chance encounter, thought Sherlock. He had been hoping to avoid any further sight or sound of Mycroft today. This morning in the car had been bad enough, listening to his patronising drivel. He didn’t care that Mycroft knew what he had been doing last night, having sex. Mycroft always knew, one way or another. The point that really annoyed Sherlock was , how could Mycroft possibly know how he felt, and what right did he have to make him feel so cheap and disgusting? (Well, probably a significant right on that last point he conceded grudgingly).

In the past eighteen months Sherlock had given him more than cause for concern, taking drugs and sleeping around. Why should Mycroft think John was any different from the countless nameless, faceless others Sherlock had spent the night with, or more accurately, fucked, in the intervening months. What was unusual this time, in fact, unprecedented, was that he had stayed until morning.

Greg followed Mycroft down the hall towards his study, flashing Sherlock an easy grin as he passed. It never ceased to astound Sherlock as to what exactly Greg Lestrade saw in his brother. Stiff and starchy, arrogant and condescending, he was the polar opposite of easy going, affable Lestrade, a diligent and surprisingly competent police officer, Sherlock grudgingly admitted. He had given Sherlock the benefit of the doubt that night when he had crashed a crime scene high on Cocaine, and bagged his brother into the bargain.

Sherlock watched the study door close with a frown. They were discussing him, he was sure of it. Mycroft would be asking Greg to watch him even more carefully tonight to avoid any more escape attempts or inappropriate sexual exploits (the more inappropriate the better where John Watson was concerned). Sherlock had already had a quick wank in the shower after school, relieving a day of pent-up frustration, and fantasising about John, how he had looked last night, so beautiful and so scared when he had finally stood naked before Sherlock in the dark bedroom, and how Sherlock had kissed away his doubts and fears, had taken him apart and left him breathless beneath him. He wanted to do that again, soon, and Mycroft and his minions were certainly not going to stop him.

Greg emerged from the study, Mycroft following close behind, he turned and gave him a lingering kiss and Sherlock thought he might vomit. Mycroft doing anything physical, sexual ,just seemed completely weird and unnatural.

“Get your skinny arse in the van Sherlock, I don’t want to get stuck in traffic” said Greg.

“Well, if we do, it’ll be Mycroft’s fault, won’t it?” he shot back, as he ruffled his fingers through his shower-damp hair.

It would have to do. A combination of heat and sweat from the crowded pub would turn it into a halo of cascading curls within minutes anyway. He sprang up and skipped through the front door ahead of Greg, avoiding eye contact with Mycroft as he did so. It was best that he didn’t get any inkling from Sherlock’s face, about what he had planned for later tonight. He hoped he wouldn’t get Greg into too much trouble on his behalf, but really, he wasn’t a child, he was capable of making his own choices, and Mycroft should accept that whether they be good or bad.

Anderson and Dimmock were already seated inside the van. Anderson tutted impatiently as Sherlock took his place in the back amongst the guitars and amps. Really, Anderson made it too bloody easy sometimes.

“Ah Anderson, good evening, lovely to see you too. I see your fiancé has kicked you out again”

“What? What the hell are you talking about Holmes?” he stuttered.

(Deep breath) “Well, you are wearing the same clothes as yesterday evening, unusual for you, meticulous about personal hygiene. The distinctive smell of a leading brand of fabric spray noted for its odour neutralising qualities – you just febreezed your clothes Anderson, obvious. You haven’t been able to wash your hair because the showers in the police station locker room are currently out of order – Greg told me that, not cheating, and you borrowed Dimmocks shaving foam and used a disposable razor from Superdrug, you missed a bit just below your jaw on the left-hand side. You never use disposables, only your expensive electric, a gift from your fiancé. Conclusion, she wouldn’t let you in the house so you slept in the locker room, you’ve been rowing again, probably something to do with that annoying WPC, Donovan isn’t it? You know, the one whose hair is currently sticking to you right forearm. Tut tut, Anderson you have been a naughty boy”.

“You didn’t work that out, Greg must have told you”

“Told him what?” Greg leapt into the drivers seat.

“About my……situation” Anderson was red-faced and fuming.

“Not a word mate, been talking to Mycroft”

(Ha! Talking? Thought Sherlock – you could probably tell me exactly what we ate for dinner, you had your tongue so far down his throat five minutes ago)

“Nice one Sherlock! Been putting your unique talents to good use again I see! Anderson-baiting” Greg was laughing heartily.

Sherlock turned his attention to Dimmock.

“Please don’t mate, you’re fucking terrifying. In medieval times they would’ve burned you at the stake or something, you know that?”

“Oh, you’re too boring Dimmock. You’ve had the afternoon off and have used that time productively by playing computer games continuously, Mario Kart I would say, using the Nunchuk not the wheel, distinctive thumb indentation and redness on the palm between the index finger and thumb where you squeeze the controller too tight when you play Rainbow Road".

Greg was in fits of laughter now, not ideal when negotiating London traffic, “Seriously mate, tell me you at least own Call of Duty (Dimmock shakes his head), Halo? (shakes head again). Christ, how old are you, ten?”

“Shut the fuck up, some of those tracks and carts are bloody hard!” Dimmock protested.

“Anyway Sherlock, we all know what you were doing last night, you look like a vampire attacked your neck, and there was that embarrassed looking blond kid at UCL Student Union. Doesn’t take a fucking genius to work that one out”.

“Yes Anderson, and I’m going to fuck him seven ways to Sunday again tonight, so what’s your point exactly?”

“ My point? Nothing really, except pointing out what a massive slutty man-whore you are. Is there anyone left in London you haven’t slept with yet Sherlock?”

“Well at least I don’t have to make do with my right hand tonight Anderson”.

The conversation continued in much the same derogatory fashion, trading insults and barbs all the way into New Cross. The large pub which they were booked to play, the Amersham Arms, was a popular music venue, catering to a mixed crowd of arty types from the nearby Goldsmiths College, and music loving locals, it was considered young and vibrant. The manager was also particularly enthusiastic when he learned the band members included two police constables (Anderson didn’t count – he was forensics), even if they were strictly speaking, off duty.

“Never can be too careful these days, the drugs problem is getting so much worse all over London, don’t want that sort in my pub. I like to think it’s a family place you know, somewhere you could bring the granny and the kids” explained the harassed looking fifty-something, graying hair and goatee, trying to look ten years younger, Sherlock thought as he listened intently.

He thought it highly unlikely that anywhere frequented by upper middle class art students would be a ‘drug-free’ environment, as he recalled the boarding school he had attended until this year, and the ridiculously high volume of Class A drugs which circulated amongst the student body, while the staff remained oblivious. Not that he had abstained himself, a joint, a line or two of coke here and there, mostly just to stave off the mind-numbing boredom of institutional education (and to piss off Mycroft).

There were already a few groups of punters, dotted around the premises, clutching drinks and chatting animatedly, the current noise level still allowing for audible conversation. Greg, who had managed to pull the van in through the open gates at the back began carrying equipment through to the stage area.

“Some help would be good Sherlock when you’ve quite finished”.

Sherlock stubbed out his cigarette irritably against the wall and reluctantly picked up some pieces of drum kit. He was nervous. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been nervous before a gig. It couldn’t be the performance, that never worried him. He could just forget the audience and lose himself in the rhythm of the music, adding his own chords and variations to Greg’s simple arrangement. But last night he had happened to look up for a split second to scan the crowd in front of him. Piercing eyes had stared back and his mind had temporarily parted company with his fingertips. John Watson made him feel nervous. The thought that he would see John again, very soon had him thrumming with nervous anticipation, and that had led to his third cigarette in half an hour.

He had a new text, fumbling fingers opened the message.

**Walking to the tube station now, should be there soon – JW.**

Sherlock knew he was grinning foolishly to himself and he didn’t care who saw. He texted back:

**Need you now – SH**

That should make his intentions very clear – why beat around the bush? The pub was slowly starting to fill, Sherlock helped Greg make some last minute a adjustments to the amps and attatched cables to effects pedals. He jerked his head up sharply when he heard a horribly familiar American drawl. Where had that voice come from?, sound was distorted from on stage and he couldn’t be sure how far away or in which direction the speaker stood. He peered out beyond the footlights and his stomach gave an uneasy lurch.

This was not good news.

~*~

John and Mike pushed through the exit barrier at New Cross Gate station followed closely by their three flatmates Bobby, Vince and Dan, all fellow first year Medicine students, all from widely different backgrounds. Bobby, the joker of the group was short and stocky with close cropped black hair and a wicked sense of humour, a typical Essex boy, the first in his family to make it to Uni. Vince was the resident posh git. Public school educated, plummy accent, tall and gangly, but keen to muck in and prove himself one of the lads. Dan was the quiet one, a sheltered only child from the Cumbrian lakes, a doctor’s son, expected to be a doctor in his turn. It could easily have been so much worse John thought. The early autumn air was already turning the evening cool and crisp as the daylight faded into night. They all followed behind Mike who was striding ahead confidently.

“Left here I think” he said, leading the way.

John brought up a street view on Google maps just in case, he didn’t have Sherlock’s encyclopaedic knowledge of London and he didn’t want to get lost on the way to the venue.

It had taken surprisingly little persuasion to get the guys to agree to a change of scenery tonight, leaving the campus and surrounding area for the first time since the weekend. They were keen to check out the ‘posh arty totty’ who were rumoured to be ‘well up for a shag’. They had also been surprisingly unmoved by John’s life-changing revelation. Bobby had been particularly candid.

“Didn’t you have a girlfriend when you got here though? I could’ve sworn you said you did. Mind, I thought I heard someone howling like a dog last night” he had laughed, much to John’s embarrassment.

“Don’t look so worried mate, sounded like a good time was had by all actually”.

Vince had also pitched in “Yeah, I might have to invest in some of those noise cancelling headphones – Christ mate, you make some fucking noise”

John groaned, head in his hands

“Oh God!”

“Yeah, I heard that one a few times as well…..dunno if it was you or him though”

Bobby was on the floor at this point. Only Dan had remained silent, smiling shyly from time to time. John suspected he was embarrassed, not used to such explicit conversations, he had even more to learn than John. They pounded the pavement for another ten minutes until they finally stood at the doors to the Amersham Arms.

“Here mate” Bobby tapped him on the shoulder sporting a wicked grin “We don’t have to watch you get off with Sherlock do we? The audio was enough without the visuals as well!”

“I’m not even going to introduce you at this rate, but I doubt if he’ll give a fuck anyway” John replied.

Mike had already recounted the tale of the ‘naked kitchen incident’ and Sherlock’s complete lack of body consciousness. He doubted very much as to whether Sherlock would have any qualms at all as to snogging him senseless in front of absolutely anyone. John, however, was not such a natural exhibitionist.

John’s heart began to hammer wildly in his chest as they pushed open the doors. This was it, he was going to see him again, as a free agent this time, no complications. What should he do? What should he say? Should he wait for Sherlock to make the first move, or seek him out as soon as he went in? This was every bit as bad, if not worse than any first date he had ever been on, when John’s understanding had been , that the boy took the pressure off the girl by making all the first moves on a date, it was how he had always done it. But this was way different, Sherlock was a law unto himself and now all bets were off. At least a warning text would be acceptable, he thought, nothing too embarrassing or needy.

**I’m here now – see you later? – JW**

His phone pinged back almost instantly

**No, now! – Ah bollocks! going on stage now – SH**

John tried valiantly to hide his disappointment, the night before feeling more and more like a hazy memory. Just to see him, a brief word or better still, a quick kiss before he lost him to a room full of people would have made all the difference. Instead, he joined Mike and the gang at the bar, where the crowd was already three deep, waiting for alcohol to take the edge off his shattered nerves. A few brief chords sounded loudly over the speaker system as the band checked sound levels and Greg took the mic to introduce themselves. John turned and craned his neck over the crowd, standing on his toes to get a better view, wishing for a few more blessed inches in the height department. He felt a light-headed rush as an achingly familiar tall thin body began bouncing energetically on the balls of his feet, guitar held firmly, shaking off the excess adrenaline before the opening number. Curls cascaded around his face, that stunning gorgeous face, as Greg leant in to whisper something in his ear, he nodded, made some adjustments to the foot pedal in front of him and stood up, scanning the audience this time. John didn’t want to draw attention to himself by raising a hand or something, although people would probably assume they were friends (it wasn’t as if he had gay boyfriend tattooed across his forehead). There were enough people gathered around the front of the stage anyway, giggling groups of girls pouting and posing, trying to catch the attention of Greg and Sherlock.

Even though it was ridiculous, his chest clenched with a bitter stab of jealousy, and John wondered if Mycroft Holmes felt like this, knowing how attractive Greg was, and the attention thrown his way on stage? But John had yet to meet the infamous Mycroft Holmes and could only draw from his own limited experience. He had never felt so instantly, jealously possessive of anyone before, Sherlock was special, he could see it, and his fear was that far too many other people would see it too. What could boring, ordinary John Watson offer that could hold the attention of someone like Sherlock?

A cold bottle pressed into his palm.

“Get that down your neck mate, you look like you need a stiff drink” Mike chuckled softly, as they moved away from the bar to get closer to the stage.

It was crowded but not as bad as last time when he had been forced to inhale someone elses bad breath and body odour.

“So where is this teenage sex god? The one that’s been keeping Johnny here up all night?”

Bobby slapped him hard on the shoulder, jolting his arm, and making the beer in his bottle foam up and overflow. Some ran down his hand and soaked his sleeve.

“It’s the skinny bastard with the hair” Mike nodded towards the stage just as Sherlock caught his eye, and John’s stomach gave a triple flip.

“He looks like a fashion model or something, what the fuck does he see in a short arse like you? You must have a magic dick, a ten-incher or something eh?”

John laughed and shrugged his shoulders, he was used to crude blokey banter, but he wished they would just lay off it a bit now, he was already on edge and it was starting to grate on his nerves.

He didn’t move from his position for the entirety of the set, enjoying the music, and the sight of Sherlock even more so. He was a natural performer, just the right mixture of aloof attitude and sexy swagger. The girls at the front were lapping it up, John noticed. One more song Greg announced, his dark t-shirt clinging to his lean body with a thin sheen of sweat, hair damp and ruffled. Sherlock looked completely poised by comparison, just a few errant curls sticking to his forehead and around his ears.

John was struck with a vivid memory from the night before and felt a heady rush of desire, Sherlock, riding him, sweating and desperate, pinning John’s wrists to the bed over his head, shouting John’s name as he came. He couldn’t let his thoughts continue down that path just yet, it would be near impossible to hide a hard-on from his mates.

Deep breaths John. Just breathe.

Feeling calmer, he risked a glance back up at the stage. Sherlock’s attention was now directed elsewhere, over to the left, by the fire exit door. Two men stood deep in conversation and another lounged idly beside them, leaning against the metal frame, taking long leisurely pulls on his bottle of Stella as he took in the rest of the room. He looked to be about late twenties, tall, muscular with close-cropped hair and a tribal tattoo on his left arm, and didn’t look at all the type to be watching a band like this. John swallowed down a gulp of anxiety that he couldn’t pinpoint and followed the line of his vision back across the room. He was staring directly at Sherlock, with a look that could only be described as predatory, and to his horror, Sherlock was staring right back at him. The tall man tapped one of his friends on the shoulder and indicated to Sherlock on the stage, a lascivious grin on his face. He locked eyes with Sherlock, jerked his head towards the fire door and calmly pushed his way through, disappearing into the night air. John felt sick. Sherlock had leapt down from the stage, set ended, and was hurrying, not towards John, but to the exit, he was going to follow that guy.

John was reeling. He hadn’t really wanted him at all, had changed his mind, used him and dumped him when a better, more experienced offer came his way. Did he know the guy? Was it a pick-up? John couldn’t help the lurch of despair as he realised that was exactly what he had been, last night. A hook-up. Sherlock stuck around only long enough to clinch the deal and fuck with his head, no longer a challenge. But it felt so real, a quiet voice in his head insisted. Sherlock had said trust him, and he had, completely. This was beyond comprehension, it was wrong, he had to know for sure, they couldn’t just leave it like this.

“Be back in a minute mate” he clapped Mike on the shoulder and moved off towards the backstage area. Maybe Greg would be able to shed some light on all this. Greg looked up as he approached, smiling in recognition.

“Hey there…John is it? What’s up kid? You lost something? Or someone?”

“Look I just saw Sherlock leave, you don’t know if he arranged to meet someone else, you know, mentioned something on the way over or, knew someone who was coming tonight?”

“Let me guess” Anderson the drummer butted in before Greg could answer (stringy hair, ratty face John thought)

“You’ve just seen him fuck off with someone else. Listen John, save yourself the trouble, he’s just a desperate little slut. That kid should have a revolving door in his jeans, his dick’s in and out that often. I’d say you’ve had a lucky escape”

“Anyway” Greg interjected angrily, “more to the point, the little dickhead’s fucked off again, left us to pack up, and Myc will chew my fucking ear off for letting him do a runner again, second night running. “Stupid little shit”, he mumbled as he continued to cart kit to the van. He turned to John. “Look, sorry mate, you seem like a nice kid, but if you do see the little wanker, tell him from me he’s a dead man”.

~*~

Sherlock, as it so happened, was feeling very much like a dead man, currently pinned to the wall of an alley, a few buildings down from the pub, by a strong well-muscled arm across his chest.

“Well, well, gorgeous, been a long time since I saw your pretty face”, a soft American drawl, southern, Georgia, Trent…something, Sherlock’s brain supplied.

“Think I might have just what you’re lookin for tonight, and maybe a little extra too”

Sherlock stiffened as he leaned in close, inhaling deeply at the crook of his neck. He recoiled as a long tanned finger brushed slowly down his face, hand curved to stroke along his chin, thumb gently running across his lower lip.

“I don’t think so, not tonight. I was just curious as to why you’re so far from home…Trent, isn’t it? Thought Soho was more your patch, The Kitty club where I saw you last, wasn’t it?”

“You’re a bit fucking nosy kid aren’t you? What the fuck do you care where you get it as long as you get what you want eh? I’ve branched out so to speak, these fucking rich brats snort up a snowstorm, but you would know all about that Pretty, think I would forget a face like that?”

Sherlock decided to ignore that last comment. His past was a mess, he knew that, but he had been clean for months now. The only thing he wanted from Trent today was information. Ever since the altercation last night, involving Mrs Hudson, he had been gripped with the feeling that change was afoot somehow. The usual people were not in their usual places. Sherlock was intrigued. He decided to press his luck.

“Do you still work for Frank Hudson, or are you dancing to someone elses tune now?”

He didn’t expect an answer and was surprised when Trent spat out

“Frank? That fucking cunt? He’s got a whole heap of trouble coming that motherfucker has. Thinks he’s the fucking king now. Gonna end up with a bullet in his brain real soon. Got it coming.”

Trent was enjoying this, an over-inflated ego, eager to impress, acting the tough guy, spilling his guts. Sherlock was disgusted. Where was the honour, loyalty and discretion? Greg’s job must be child’s play if this was the best that the criminal classes had to offer.

But this didn’t stop the actual situation from being so much worse than he thought. Did Mrs Hudson know her husband had a target on his back?

Trent pressed closer, hot beery breath puffing in Sherlock’s face. The time to be thinking of a way out of this was right now, he thought.

“How about a gram or two for the road…..Sherlock…isn’t it? Can’t forget a name like that now, can I?.I remember how much you used to like it you fucking little coke-whore, what do you say beautiful, wanna party?”

“Just get your fucking hands off me Trent, I’m clean, I don’t need any of your low-grade shit”

Sherlock froze as long fingers pushed a tiny plastic ziplock bag of white powder into the front of his jeans.

“Now, about my payment…”

Sherlock struggled against the weight of Trent’s arm, pressing him back against the bricks. He had been stupid to follow a dealer outside alone, especially one who knew his face and was well acquainted with his former ‘habits’. He was just trying to hook him back in with a free wrap, he knew that, and Trent wasn’t one to take no for an answer apparently.

The shit was about to hit the fan.

“Ah..ah…ah pretty”.

Trent tutted as Sherlock struggled against his bulk. The guy had a 100lbs on him, easy, he was going nowhere.

“What say you take a little pinch honey”

Sherlock’s skin was crawling now. Trent was going to pin him here until he took the fucking drugs, hook him in and keep him dancing. Maybe it would be better to just give in and get it over with, worry about the consequences later? He remembered the intense high after that first sweet hit, the sharp focus, feeling invincible, but he also remembered cravings, cramps and sickness, he couldn’t go back to that, John would never want to be with a pathetic junkie. Oh god, John. They were supposed to be together right now. He would think Sherlock had ditched him – he’d gone and fucked that up too!

Trent took out another small bag and wet his index finger, dipping it into the fine white powder.

“Open up gorgeous”

The tip of a tongue slipped out and licked a stripe up the side of his cheek. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut tightly and pressed his lips together, shaking his head in wordless protest. What a fucking idiot to let himself be cornered like this. He hadn’t thought Trent was dangerous, but he had been horribly, stupidly wrong. His life wouldn’t be worth living if Mycroft caught him getting high again. He was out of options, Trent right in his face.

He braced himself.

**“Back. The Fuck. Away From Him. Now”.**

~*~

John Watson wondered how the hell he had gone from watching a gig in a warm friendly pub to pressing a short piece of metal piping into the back of this man’s neck. A fucking huge guy. He tried to make his voice as deep and menacing as possible and fought against the slight tremor in his arm.

After leaving Greg, he had retraced Sherlock’s steps through the fire exit door, looking for any clue as to which way he might have gone. He was angry. Angry with himself and angry at Sherlock, for making him feel like and probably look like a complete tit in front of his mates and Greg. He cringed inwardly at the look of pity on Greg’s face and the condescending sneer of Anderson. The other one, Dimmock or something, had just stood, head down, avoiding all eye contact.

He at least wanted some sort of explanation, an apology even. After what had happened last night he deserved that at least. They had had sex, John’s first time for fucks sake and that must have meant something to him surely? John was more than a little scared the answer would be no.

They wouldn’t be far surely? Sherlock had left in a hurry, dumping his bass on the stage and bolting out the door in just his thin sweaty t-shirt. It was early October and the autumn air was freezing at this hour. As he walked past a boarded-up convenience store he heard the murmur of two deep voices. One definitely American he thought, the other unmistakably Sherlock. Sherlock sounded tense, nothing at all like his usual ‘I’m cool as fuck, deal with it’ self.

He paused, straining to overhear the conversation without being seen. He heard ‘Frank Hudson’ and ‘bullet in his head’ as the blood slowly drained from his face. This was so not good. Whatever the fucking trouble the stupid lanky idiot had walked into here was, it wasn’t the sound of a frantic fuck in a back alley. He peered cautiously around the corner. Sherlock was rigid, pressed back against the wall about halfway down, barely illuminated by the light from the street beyond. The tall American was pressed close to Sherlock’s body, a strong beefy arm pinning him in place by his chest. John saw Sherlock wriggle a little, trying to move against him, slumping back again after a fruitless attempt. It felt so unreal, like a scene from a movie, standing in the half-light, realising with growing horror that Sherlock was in real trouble, alone and scared. But John was there, he wasn’t no-one, there was no time to run for help, it could only be him.

Now John now, it has to be now!

He looked around wildly. He couldn’t go in all guns blazing, the gut would kill him, and in the time it took to rush him he might hurt Sherlock. He could have a knife for fuck’s sake (he remembered the flash of silver skidding across the alley between his legs only last night – was it only last night?)

His eye caught on a short length of metal pipe poking out from behind a rusted yellow skip, a remnant of some building work or renovations of some sort, long abandoned. It was barely six inches long and about half an inch in diameter. John doubted how useful it would be as a weapon, but maybe….

He picked it up and pressed it to the soft skin at the side of his neck experimentally.

It was all he had. It would have to work.

He crept closer.

"Back. The Fuck. Away From Him. Now."

Trent froze, finger still extended towards Sherlock’s lips.

“Hey relax dude, just having some alone time with my little fuck buddy here, you know?”

“I don’t think so, now get your hands off him or I’ll hurt you, you know?” John mimicked Trent’s own words back to him sneeringly.

He pressed harder with the metal pipe at the nape of his neck, hoping desperately that in the adrenaline rush it felt enough like the barrel of a gun to fool this meat- head for long enough.

“Let him up, move slowly, back off”

“Fiesty little cunt aren’t you now? Scared your pretty little boyfriend prefers my cock, are you? That aint no gun, so fuck off now kid and I might leave you some for afters”

Trent was distracted, dealing with John behind him he had taken his eye off Sherlock in front of him. A momentary easing of the pressure on his chest was all it took. He spat hard in Trent’s stunned face, and as he brought his free hand up to wipe it away, (or punch Sherlock, he didn’t plan on sticking around long enough to find out), Sherlock launched a hard bony knee straight in the balls. Trent doubled over with a hoarse cry, and Sherlock wriggled his way past his crumpled body, grabbing a stunned John by the hand as he went.

“Run John, now!”

They pounded down the alley, skidded around the corner and continued on, away from the direction of the Amersham Arms. Sherlock’s long legs gave him the edge and John found himself pulled along in his wake, fighting for breath, lungs screaming.

“Slow down Sherlock, I’m dying here”

“We will fucking die if they catch us, he’s probably calling his idiot friends right now, you saw them didn’t you?”

“Yeah” John gasped. “Two other steroid freaks, built like tanks, who…the…fuck…are…they?"

He was panting hard.

“Not important right now, but they all know who I am, we need to get out of sight” Sherlock called back to him over his shoulder.

They ran for a few more streets, slowing down to a jog, pulses still racing.

“How did you know?” Sherlock was bent over at the waist clutching his side. He peered up at John, mouth tilted in a slight smile, eyebrow quirked, questioningly.

“Saw you leave, follow him out. Thought you’d ditched me for a second, (he started at the look of shock on Sherlock’s face) but something just felt off” he smiled, “I might of guessed you were up shit creek somewhere, you arse”.

“A bit of a habit of mine it seems” Sherlock straightened up now, breathing returned to normal.

“What? You mean this sort of thing happens on a regular basis, pissing off members of the criminal underclass?”

“Maybe, as you’ve probably gathered by now John, I’m no angel myself”

“Yes I’m beginning to see that” “Doesn’t it bother you?”

Sherlock looked genuinely worried now, cool façade slipping for an instant. John was surprised at how quickly his own answer came, he didn’t have to agonise over this one, he just knew. It was time to follow his instincts for once, take a leap of faith, because all that he stood to lose was standing in front of him, both their futures hanging in the balance.

“Well, I would never be bored would I?” he smiled openly, reassuringly.

“No, I expect not. So, if we were to….keep doing this…whatever we are doing…you would be okay with it…everything I mean…?” Sherlock trailed off.

“Just come here, now, you idiot”

John closed the gap between them in one small stride cupping Sherlock’s downturned face in his hands and pulled him forward pressing their lips together. A soft press gave way to firm pressure as Sherlock relaxed against him with a sigh, tongue finding his own. A pair of freezing cold arms curled around his waist under his jacket drinking in his body heat, rubbing up and down his sides, his t-shirt rucking up to expose bare skin to the chill air. He had wanted this so much all day, fantasised about touching Sherlock again, and here he was, a solid presence, that only minutes ago he thought he had lost, kissing him with increasing hunger, pushing and licking and biting. They were both much too turned-on right now, if he didn’t slow this down they just might fuck in the street. His cock throbbed almost painfully.

“Sherlock, we have to stop, you said they would still be looking for us” John pulled back reluctantly and Sherlock gave a frustrated whine.

“What now?”

John glanced nervously around, half expecting to be ambushed at any second. The siren of a police car sounded in the distance and they both jumped anxiously.

“We need to find a cab, move out of the area completely. Greg knows I’m awol so Mycroft will be looking too, besides I’m fucking freezing”

Sherlock was shivering now in his thin sweat-soaked t-shirt. He grabbed John’s left hand and began jogging in the direction of the highstreet.

“Where can we go? My place?” John asked running to keep up with his shorter legs.

“No, there is someone we really need to speak to, tonight, it can’t wait”

“Who?”

“Mrs Hudson, we need to get to Baker Street now!”

~*~

It took ten minutes to find a cab that would stop for two teenage boys at midnight. They slumped on the seat gratefully, out of the cold and out of danger, for now at least. John yawned widely, a mixture of fatigue and fear, the adrenaline wearing off now. Sherlock laid his head on John’s shoulder and sighed deeply.

“Sherlock, did that bloke….that creep…did he touch you?” John whispered nervously as the interior of the cab was bathed in flashes of colour and light, moving through the busy streets. Sherlock wriggled against his side.

“I’ll fucking kill him if he did” he added with venom.

“I’m not helpless you know John, I wouldn’t have let it get that far”

“How could you be sure of that?”

“Well, I suppose I couldn’t, but it doesn’t matter now because there you were, all fake gun and attitude” he chuckled softly.

“You are a bloody idiot, you do know that don’t you?” John reached between them and laid his left hand on Sherlock’s right, squeezing gently.

“Baker Street lads” the cab driver interrupted.

They sprang apart.

“Just here is fine” Sherlock directed as the cab glided into the kerb and deposited them outside a Chinese takeaway, sign glowing red and gold. John pulled out some cash to pay. Sherlock’s jeans were so tight there was no way he was concealing a wallet or even some folded up notes in his pockets.

“Dinner? I’m bloody starving” said Sherlock with a grin.

John didn’t bother returning the cash to his pocket, the meal was on him too he guessed.

~*~

They walked down the rest of Baker Street twenty minutes later, a plastic bag emitting delicious aromas into the night air as it swung from John’s arm. His stomach growled loudly, Sherlock’s joining in the chorus. They reached the large black door of 221B and stood in silence, hesitant now at this late hour.

“Something doesn’t feel right” Sherlock fidgeted at his side, tapping his fingers against his thighs and biting at his bottom lip. John had to remind himself not to stare at his mouth, this wasn’t the time or the place.

“I can’t see any lights on inside”, Sherlock’s eyes scanned the windows rapidly.

“Well she could be in bed, it is late you know”, John added.

“No, it just feels…empty. Come on, now!”

Sherlock grabbed his free arm and pulled him down the street to the corner, they turned right, walking down the side of Mrs Hudson’s terrace, and right again, so they were heading back towards 221B, but at the rear of the house this time. The back of the house was similarly steeped in darkness, 221A eerily silent, visible over a crumbling brick wall which concealed a small back yard, concrete surface, wheelie bins under the kitchen window. Sherlock tried the handle of the wooden gate set into the right hand side of the wall. It was locked. The wall was only about 5ft tall so he clambered up inside, using haps in the brickwork as footholds. He sat on the top of the wall and reached his hand down to John.

“Need some help?”

“Cheeky git! I’m not that short, here, hold this a sec” John passed the bag of food up to Sherlock and stepped back a couple of paces to give himself a little momentum. He followed without too much difficulty, rubber soles scrabbling a little for purchase on the uneven surface, and soon sat astride the wall too.

“What now?”

“Now” said Sherlock, “we take a look inside”.

“We’re going to break in?” whispered John incredulously. “Are you fucking insane? We can’t just barge our way into some poor woman’s house in the middle of the night!”

“It’s also a serious criminal offence” said Sherlock drily, “But I’m still fucking doing it. You heard what’s in store for her husband Frank? Do you think people like that would just let her go on her merry little way after offing her husband? We have to at least warn her, if it’s not already too late” he eyed the dark, silent house warily.

“Okay” John hissed. “But I hope you know what you’re fucking doing”

“Well, let’s just say I’m familiar with the method”

Sherlock hopped down off the wall and padded across the yard to the kitchen window, he handed the bag back to John, reached into his pocket and drew out a long thin piece of metal. John gasped.

“You mean to say, you can’t carry any cash in your tight fucking jeans, but you found enough room for a bloody lock pick?”

“Yes, well, Mycroft can be such a dick sometimes, locking me out of the house, locking me _inside_ the house…always have an escape plan John” he added cheerfully as he cupped his hands around his eyes to block out any residual light and peered intently through the window.  


“I can’t tell from here, we have to go in”.

John stood nervously at Sherlock’s side as he moved to the back door and looked at the lock thoughtfully. It was lucky, the Hudson’s had seemingly resisted the temptation to replace all the exterior wooden doors and window frames with hideous UPVC monstrosities, good news for the environment, and also good news for Sherlock’s house-breaking skills. The lock clicked loudly.

“We’re in”

Sherlock’s eyes scanned the darkened room, picking out work-tops and appliances, table and chairs, checking for anything out of place, out of the ordinary. Mrs Hudson was obviously house-proud. Nothing was extravagant though, everything well used, but well-loved and cared for. His eyes rested on a dirty plate, sitting on the kitchen table, one plate, the chair pushed back, the others all neatly tucked in their places. A knife lay beside the plate, no fork. Sherlock frowned.

“Well, everything looks okay doesn’t it?" John whispered nervously.

“No. look, Mrs Hudson wouldn’t leave things like this…where is it?”

Sherlock dropped down on his hands and knees, scanning the floor.

“Ah there, see? He inched forward and reached into the gap between the work-top and the oven and drew out a fork with remnants of the same half-finished meal sticking to the tines. “She got up in a hurry John, in too much of a rush to pick this up or tuck the chair back in. You saw Mrs Hudson last night, when she was attacked walking home? Doesn’t strike me as the sort of woman who is easily frightened, so why did she bolt this time, and where did she go in such a hurry?”

They moved out into the narrow hallway.

“The coat she was wearing last night is gone” said Sherlock, “and there don’t seem to be any indications of a struggle, so it looks like she left of her own free will at least.” He tried the door leading out to the main hallway. “Locked. She at least had time to lock up, but something’s still not right”.

He drew out the lock pick again and wiggled at the front door this time.

“What are you doing now?” John whispered behind him.

 “The rest of the building is empty, supposedly, we’re just going to make sure. Oh…..and then… we wait”.

~*~

Sherlock paused at the foot of the stairs leading up to 221B. He placed a foot tentatively on the bottom step and let it hold his body weight for a moment, the old wood creaked faintly. He began to climb, right hand trailing up the bannister, counting seventeen steps until he stood before a faded green door. John followed behind, the aroma of Chinese takeaway scenting the air around him. Sherlock tried the handle and the door swung inward, hinges protesting with a metallic screech. They peered in to a large, high-ceilinged room, two large windows hung with heavy green drapes, bare wooden floorboards, warped and pitted with age. Garish patterned wallpaper covered most of the room and a long squashy old leather sofa was pushed up against the wall to their right, the only furniture in the generous space. A fireplace stood at the opposite end, bookshelves in each alcove, empty, waiting to be filled with words, with life.

It was beautiful.

They stepped inside. Sherlock closed the door.

“Now we eat” he said, turning to John.

He indicated a long kitchen table through a dividing panel to the left, a fold-back screen separating the living area from the kitchen.

“Isn’t this a bit weird?” John said as he placed the plastic bag on the table and began removing the foil containers, pulling off the insulated cardboard lids. Delicious steam filled their nostrils, it had been hours since their last meal.

“It’s where we need to be, its safe…ish, under cover, empty, away from prying eyes, need I go on?” Sherlock rummaged in a kitchen drawer and pulled out two forks, he handed one to John and began hungrily stuffing noodles into his mouth.

“And I’m totally sure that Mrs Hudson won’t mind one bit” he added between messy mouthfuls.

They ate in silence, the only sounds, chewing and gulping. John found two chipped mugs in one of the cupboards and filled them with water from the kitchen tap, handing one to Sherlock.

“ Christ, I’m gagging for a cup of tea, this water tastes like shit” he grimaced.

Sherlock regarded him thoughtfully, fork suspended in the air,

“And is that all you’re gagging for tonight Mr Watson?”

John blushed crimson, glad for the cover of near darkness.

“We just broke into a house, and are eating dinner in a flat we shouldn’t be in, and your mind immediately turns to sex?” he blurted out.

“Why not? The place is empty, I don’t think Mrs Hudson will be back anytime soon. Besides it’s a bit cold in here, and I need something….someone to warm me up”

Sherlock demonstrated by rubbing at his bare arms and giving an exaggerated shiver. John began to feel very warm, heat building in his face and neck and pouring down into his chest and stomach. He tried to take long steadying breaths in and out, hitching on the inhale as the heat finally reached his groin, Sherlock’s words, his voice connecting directly with his cock.

It’s fine, its fine, the voice in his head repeated like a mantra, last night was good, it would be just as good again. Sherlock wanted to be with him, he didn’t care that John was new to all this, they could take their time, they had all night after all. He took another gulp of water and swished it around a little, wishing for toothpaste or mouthwash. He placed the mug down and watched silently as Sherlock pushed back his chair and moved around the table to stand in front of him.

“John”

Sherlock leaned in close and kissed him sweetly and deeply, teasing his mouth open and probing gently with his tongue. His hands ghosted down John’s back, palms running smoothly over his arse, he cupped it firmly and pulled John firmly against him. John could feel his very definite erection digging in near his pelvis, his own pressing into Sherlock’s thigh. They ground themselves together, John grabbing Sherlock’s arse too, rutting more desperately, friction building through denim, and John wondered briefly if they would both just dry hump each other until they came in their pants.

Sherlock was the first to pull away.

“Take these off, I need to feel you” his fingers fumbled hungrily at John’s belt and zip, pushing the offending obstacles down his thighs so he could kick them off. Without any warning he hooked his thumbs in the waistband of John’s boxers and yanked those down too. John yelped as his cock sprang free, bobbing hard and heavy in front of his body. Then Sherlock was on him, face buried in his crotch licking and sucking along the shaft of his cock, swirling over the glans as John grabbed the back of a kitchen chair to stop himself from falling.

“Nngh….Sherlock…fuck…”

Sherlock held the base of John’s dick steady with his right hand as he sucked down the entire length, teasing and caressing John’s balls with his other hand at the same time. The onslaught of sensation was almost overwhelming. John’s nipples stood out under his t-shirt, tight and erect, his breath huffing out in ragged pants as Sherlock’s tongue swirled and his lips sucked, cheeks hollowed out taking him deeper and deeper each time until John could feel his cock touch the back of Sherlock’s throat.

His hips began to rock slightly, back and forward, he wanted to fuck Sherlock’s mouth, that gorgeous mouth, oh god he needed to come, he was going to come down Sherlock’s throat, and Sherlock would swallow it down and lick him clean.

The filthy mental images, ejaculating into Sherlock’s willing mouth pushed him closer to the edge, too soon, not yet, he bit his lip, hard. Sherlock could sense the tension building in John’s body and pulled away, letting his cock slide from his mouth with an obscene pop.

John sagged, leaning heavily on the back of the kitchen chair, breathing heavily.

“That was… god…that was…”

“Good?” Sherlock supplied helpfully.

“Fucking incredible you mean” John gasped “I thought I was going to shoot my load straight down your throat, don’t you have a gag reflex?”

“Just another of my many talents, you should know by now, I’m an excellent fuck”

“And a cocky bastard”

“Ah, so I am an excellent fuck? You didn’t contradict me!”

“Well, there hasn’t been any actual fucking yet”

“Only an aborted attempt to fuck my throat…. next time I’m going to just let you do it”

John groaned.

“You have to hold my head still and pound into me until I start to choke, until my eyes water and drool runs down my chin, and I just kneel there and take it, would you like that John?”

Sherlock continued to tease, eyes flashing dangerously, “But tonight I want you to fuck me again…hard”.

As he talked, he slowly stripped off his clothes, t-shirt, toed off his shoes, pulled off socks, jeans, boxers, tossing each item carelessly aside, scattering them around the room, until he stood, like a white marble statue on the bare wooden floor, cock dark and erect against his pale abdomen. He held out his hand, beckoning. John pulled his own t-shirt over his head and let it fall from his hand to the dusty kitchen tiles. He stepped forward and they walked across the room together, naked, to the old leather sofa.

Sherlock sank down onto the soft cushions, pulling John with him, spreading his legs to let John stretch out between them. They pressed together, kissing hungrily, cocks aligned, hot and velvety, leaking with precome. John moaned into Sherlock’s mouth. He wanted him so badly, to kiss him and mark him and own him and he was scared, scared of the strength of his desire, the sheer want, to be inside him, their bodies fused together, to fill him with his seed. The thought was hot and filthy and wonderful.

Muffled moans, panting hard into each other’s mouths and face and hair, grinding and rocking together, abdomens damp and sticky. John sucked hard at a patch of exposed skin as Sherlock arched his head back, crying out, fisting handfuls of ash blond hair and pulling until John felt his eyes begin to water. Sherlock pulled him up to claim his mouth again, licking and nibbling along John’s lower lip, he caught it delicately between his teeth, pulling and biting as John reached around to pull one of Sherlock’s long legs around his waist, running his palm over the his arse cheek and ghosting a finger along the crack, skimming over his entrance.

“Ahh…John…John…we need…a condom, please say you have one or I’ll die!”

John slowed his movements, burying his head in the crook of Sherlock’s neck, fighting to come back to himself.

“Yes…yes, just…wait there…just wait”

He pushed up from the sofa and stumbled unsteadily across the room, finding his crumpled jeans on the floor. He pulled out two joined foil packets and a squashed tube of lubricant almost tripping over himself in his haste to get back. Sherlock lay stretched out along the sofa, the sexiest fucking sight he’d ever seen, legs still spread, arms stretched back over his head, chest moving up and down steadily. He sprang up as John approached.

“Assumed that you were going to get lucky tonight I see” he said archly, then added “You did realise I was a dead cert didn’t you?”

“You are such a fucking tart Sherlock…come here”

John reached over and dragged him up from the sofa, kissed him hard and teasingly pinched a nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Sherlock gasped as John pulled and twisted slightly.

“Fuck! That hurts…I like it…do it again”.

He pinched and rolled and pulled until Sherlock’s nipple was livid red and hard then he licked over it with the flat of his tongue in soft soothing stripes. Sherlock shuddered and moaned clinging to his waist.

“God, John, I want you now…please”

They tumbled back onto the soft leather again, a tangle of limbs, and Sherlock scrambled into position on his knees, shoulders down, head resting on his crossed arms. He spread his knees apart again, arse ready, inviting John’s touch. John knelt behind him, between his legs and popped open the cap on the tube of lubricant, coating the fingers of his right hand generously. It was cold. He rubbed his hands together briefly, to warm it a little, then gently ran his index finger down the cleft of Sherlock’s arse to his hole, running light teasing circles over the sensitive skin. Sherlock wriggled and writhed impatiently, trying to push back against John’s finger, desperate to feel it inside his body. John remembered how much Sherlock had loved this last night, wanting more and more, deeper and faster. He pushed inside and Sherlock cried out, rocking his hips back further, to fuck himself, utterly wrecked already, he wouldn’t need much more but John didn’t want to hurt him, wasn’t sure if he would. He added a second finger, scissoring gently to relax and stretch, then a third to fill him, crooking his fingertips to find the bundle of nerve endings that would drive Sherlock insane, memorising the angle.

“Ugh, do I have to fuck myself on your hand or do I get your cock John? Please, I’m fucking dying”

John understood his desperation, his cock was throbbing and his balls felt like lead weights, hot and tight. He pulled out slowly and reached for a condom, tearing open the packet with his teeth and rolling it on with trembling fingers. Sherlock looked so open and ready, wet lube glistening around his hole, as John steadied himself and lined up, gripping Sherlock’s hips tightly. Sherlock thrust back as John pushed forward and they both hissed as he slid in almost half way. It was too much too soon and Sherlock cried out.

“Shit… I’m sorry…I’m sorry” John gasped

“No… no, it’s fine…just give me a sec, it feels so full… stings a little”,

Sherlock panted beneath him. The heat of Sherlock’s body was tight and intense around John’s cock, as he fought to remain in control. He was desperate to move, to thrust.

“Yes…now John”.

It was all the encouragement he needed. He eased his hips back, withdrawing slightly and pushed back into Sherlock’s body, the friction sending electric currents racing through his skin. Slowly, the pace increased as he rocked back and forward, the slide becoming smoother, slick wet sounds, obscene and beautiful. He held Sherlock’s slender hips in a death grip, scared that if he didn’t hold him there, John would just fuck him across the sofa and into the wall beyond. He imagined that Sherlock would probably like that idea anyway.

“Harder John, fuck me, I won’t break”.

That little question answered apparently.

John swore under his breath, sweat already running in rivulets between his shoulder blades and coating his upper lip with a wet, salty film. He gritted his teeth and thrust harder and faster, not sure how long he could last at this pace. He leant further over Sherlock’s body, taking his hands from Sherlock’s hips, instead, winding his left arm around the thin chest and pulling him up lifting his upper body from the cushions. They were both almost upright now, kneeling, John positioned between Sherlock’s spread thighs, turned towards the back of the sofa now, Sherlock bracing himself on the headrest with one arm. The other arm reached back past John’s waist to clutch desperately at his thrusting arse, trying to push him further inside, shorter shallower penetration in this position. John bit down into the soft skin of Sherlock’s shoulder, muffling his cries and moans

“Sherlock…Sh..erlock…Sher…lock” over, and over, and over.

Sherlock let go and bent himself fully over the back of the sofa now, thrusting back to meet John. He must be close now, exhausted, they both were, but he hadn’t touched his cock yet, and John’s fevered brain wondered if he had got it wrong again, virgin inexperience, that he should be doing more. Left hand back on Sherlock’s hip, he reached around that fragile pelvis and found Sherlock’s hot, heavy cock, bobbing, neglected. Already slick his palm slid up and down the length smoothly, pulling back the foreskin, flicking a thumb over the head, as Sherlock bucked and moaned frantically.

“Ah… fuck John…going to come…ah”

Sherlock stiffened, then jerked forward, collapsing against the cushions as ribbon upon ribbon of hot, sticky semen striped the olive green leather and coated John’s fingers and hand. The sight of it was just so fucking hot, John thought, that two more erratic thrusts and he followed, tension ramped up to an impossible degree before freefall, balls emptying and cock pulsating as Sherlock’s internal muscles squeezed and contracted around him. He slumped heavily over Sherlock’s back, breathing hot air into the side of his neck. Sherlock twisted around, straining to find John’s mouth.

Oh god, why did he have to look at him like that, fucked to within an inch of his life and still staring into John’s eyes like he wanted to eat him alive. He let himself be kissed, giving in to the inevitability. Sherlock tasted of Chinese five spice and sex, John bit down and tasted the copper tang of blood, and Sherlock hummed, licked at his mouth greedily and sighed.

John pulled out carefully, caressing Sherlock’s back, pressing soft kisses down his spine. He tied off the condom and dropped it on the floor, the air cool on his naked, sweat soaked skin. He picked up a crumpled t-shirt from the floor,( whose? Doesn’t matter) and wiped the come off his hand and then off the thankfully old, leather. Sherlock dragged the quilted throw from the back of the sofa and unfolded it, spreading it out like a blanket, tucking it behind him. He beckoned John to join him, and he slipped in willingly. Little spoon. Sherlock drew the soft material around them both in a warm cocoon and John twined their fingers together, hugging them to his chest. His heart was still beating too fast.

“Is it always that good? Does it always feel so….”

He wasn’t sure what to say next.

“Intense?” Sherlock supplied

“Yeah, that’s one word for it I suppose” John hummed thoughtfully.

“It’s like, you can’t get enough, but it’s too much, but you want more and more all at the same time, I….maybe it’s just you…us…do you think?” he tried to tilt his head back, to see a little of Sherlock’s face, read his expression.

“That we just had amazing sex? Yes, I agree, that was…”

Whatever else Sherlock meant to say was lost in the nape of John’s neck as he wriggled closer, insinuating a thigh between John’s legs and wiggling his ice cold toes.

“That.. thing you did John…earlier when that man was…anyway… it was…good” Sherlock blurted out suddenly.

John raised his eyebrows in surprise, where had that just come from?

“It didn’t work anyway, it was a stupid idea” he said apologetically.

“No, it wasn’t stupid, it distracted him enough to let us get away” Sherlock insisted, and hugged him closer, and John wondered if Sherlock just found the whole post-sex intimacy thing unbearably awkward, switching the subject from how it had felt (John), to legging it from a potentially violent thug.

He gazed around the dark empty room, only tiny cracks of light from the lampposts outside penetrating the heavy drapes.

“It would be nice, you know, to live somewhere like this one day, I like it, it feels…right”

Sherlock hummed in agreement. John continued, enthused. “There should be two chairs, over there, in front of the fireplace, one on each side. I’d like something soft and squashy, a floppy old armchair with piles of cushions and a little side-table to put my cup of tea on or something. Christ I sound like an old man” he chuckled.

To his surprise Sherlock continued, deep voice vibrating into his skin.

“I’d prefer something more modern, wide, leather, I like leather, big enough to tuck my legs up when I want to and not feel like they’re sitting under my chin. The chairs would be facing each other, mine facing the kitchen so I could keep an eye on my experiments”.

“What the fuck do you mean, experiments?" John pinched him lightly on his forearm.

“Exactly as I thought” Sherlock continued. “You would sit facing the window, because you like the natural sunlight and you would pretend to get all pissed off about the mess in the kitchen, but you wouldn’t be that annoyed, it would just be an excuse to have angry make-up sex all over the flat”.

John burst into uncontrollable giggles “You’ve actually thought this all through, have you?”

“Why not?” Sherlock bristled “We could do that, if we wanted, if you wanted…me”

He sounded so unbearably young John thought, but also incredibly sincere. To think about their possible future together after such a brief time, whether jokingly or not, John must have made just as big an impact on Sherlock’s life as Sherlock had on his.

“Yes Sherlock, I want you” he murmured sleepily, bringing their entwined fingers up to his lips, and kissing them softly.

They both slipped down into darkness.

It would find them both soon anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> Phew! That was a long one! They deserved a little fluff at the end there - but darkness lies ahead for our lovely pair (but with lots of gorgeous smut to ease the pain of course!)


End file.
